


Too Much

by SherlockxofxBakerSt



Series: After the End Comes Healing [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Autistic Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Smut, Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28428795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockxofxBakerSt/pseuds/SherlockxofxBakerSt
Summary: Sometimes, even for an angel, the world can be too much.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: After the End Comes Healing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108397
Comments: 24
Kudos: 104





	Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously wrote this in the hospital when I didn't have my anxiety meds with me and the world was being much too loud. I based Aziraphale's bad day on some of my own.

For all intents and purposes, Aziraphale was autistic. Not by genetics down a line of ancestors perhaps, a varient in DNA. He was made whole cloth out of nothing but Her Will. But, he was autistic all the same. Once the label, and all that it entailed, was offered by Crowley after a particularly Bad Day, and research had been done, it made undeniable sense. The Principality liked to think that it as some ineffable omniscience on the Almighty's part to make him that much more human.

Angel. Principality. Bookshop owner. Gay (even if that, in reality, depended on Crowley's current pronouns). Soft. Autistic. All labels he had taken as his own and wrapped up in a tartan bowtie, even if each had their good and not-so-good realities.

"Autistic" was no exception to that rule.

While Crowley openly adored and encouraged his happy wiggles and overly-energetic hands that often wanted to take flight as much as his wings, he was also all-too-aware of less kind words around him, unable to block them out. After all, how many of them had come from his superiors? The velvet cloth his tailor had chosen so many decades ago had been a particular annoyance to Gabriel, once his fidgeting fingers had worn the wonderful fabric threadbare.

He reveled in his interests, of the puzzles that all the best prophetic books are, the misprints and human nature accidentally stamped forever in Bibles, the sensations and scents that came with the meticulous work of rebinding, and best yet, the way certain textures of food lit up the nerves of his corporation. Yet, he knew those things, coupled with his inability to accept change, made him seem hedonistic. Not a single customer had weasled a book out of him in the past year. He had even horded Adam's new books like an miserly old dragon, and yet the anxiety that came with losing some again had not overcome his need for sameness enough for him to simply shut up shop, or turn it into a library. That was mild in comparison to how gluttonous he could seem to both other angels and humans alike as he savoured and sullied his celestial body with "gross matter".

Despite the duality of all of his labels, they were his. Even when they all culminated in Bad Days.

He had thought the worst day would have been a mere month after the botched Armageddon. After all, he should have known it coming. Crowley had had his break the week prior, coming in sloshed and panicking into the bookshop in the dead of night. Aziraphale had held him for the first time all that night, until the Serpent of Eden, still hiccuping about fires, had collapsed into exhausted slumber.

Aziraphale himself had almost prided himself in being the strong one for once, for keeping himself together. He kept Crowley close for the rest of the week, foregoing his routine to allow the traumatised and drained demon to cope. That was, until a rather nasty bout of thunder, coupled with a series of car alarms had tore him unceremoniously from the book he had been engrossed in while Crowley napped with his head on his plump thigh.

That day, he had already found old letters from Head Office, reprimands, all of them, and had found himself barely aware of himself or the shop until his dear had finally found him, and coaxed him back to reality. He was foolish to think that would be the end of it, especially as the sparking over his sensitive nerves only grew worse into the night.

Once the alarms were silenced a wave of Crowley's hand (not snap, bless him), earplugs were materialised, and a snake was wrapped snuggly around Aziraphale's chest long enough to allow him to gather himself, and only then did Crowley voice his theory in little more than a whisper. 

Aziraphale wasn't broken, or some mistake made in some distraction. There was reason, a logic to it and that all Aziraphale needed to latch onto once the tears had stopped.

That logic was as useful as soggy tissue paper today.

Again, the little voice in the back of his head told him that he should have known better, that this was the sort of day that would lead to every single thing leaving him more and more irate. However, that same voice also reminded him that he was a Principality, an angel of the Lord, a Warrior, and none of those things huddled under a weighted blanket to avoid the day with cocoa and darkness.

That was how he was late opening the store for its elusive hours, had let his tea grow cold three times, and had argued with himself audibly, loudly enough to scare off the single customer who had decided to wander in on the (to Aziraphale) infuriatingly bright day.

In some misguided attempt to keep himself in check, he kept his hands clasped around his middle, or at his back, as if he were being watched by Michael or Gabriel. He was going to the park with Crowley in mere hours, and it would not do to cancel because he was feeling stroppy.

In retrospect, cancelling would have been preferable. It was as if everything in the universe was trying to find the right frequency of noise to prefect the art of being obnoxious. A baby squalled the distance, inconsolable even after a hasty miracle sent their way. The ducks decided that they ought to noisily squabble over every scrap of bread despite the generous amount. At least three groups of parkgoers decided to play bebop on speakers, the cacophony an unintelligible mess of voices mixing with the chatter of the humans.

Worse of all, was the sun. He could only squint at the harshly lit world and do his best to ignore the heat that pooled sweat at his armpits and shoulder blades, adding a stickiness that did nothing to help the sparks of discomfort running from his fingers to his spine.

If Crowley was trying to talk to him, he never made out the words, and it was impossible to turn his eyes from the ground to look up at his love. However, Crowley must know, his serpentine walk had become more direct, streamlined to finish the walk.

It was all too much. His hands fluttered at his side as he came to a halt, fingers curling as he fought the desire to cover his ears and whimper. He was going to be left behind, but his legs wouldn't budge, his fingers grasping at his hair, palms pressing hard against his ears. His body tipped forward to rest his weight on his toes before shifting back to his heels as his eyes squeezed themselves shut.

Something cool touched Aziraphale's temples and the bridge of his nose, causing him to recoil. His eyes strained open just enough to meet Crowley's eyes, all sclera gone, betraying his own stress. His love's glasses were an inch from his face, having been pulled back at the violent reaction.

The only coherent thought that Aziraphale grasped in his whirlpooling mind was that he was upsetting Crowley. Making a scene. Embarrassing the only friend he had.

Eyes tightly shut again, the world twisted around Aziraphale without his volition. He stumbled, flinching as fingers struck books, toppling them to the floor.

In the far back of the bookshop, the world was as quiet as it could get in Soho. It was almost worse. The silence compressed against his body, making his skin feel too tight, the cool of the air instantly chilling him. Something electric buzzed even past his guarding palms. Worst of all, he had abandoned Crowley. 

The tension that had been threatening to tear flesh from bone finally snapped, potential energy turned kinetic. His hands removed themselves from hair to form into fists, only to slam into the plush meat of his thighs.

Even as he did it, he knew better. He had managed not to for years, ever since Crowley nearly caught him in the nineties. His body did not care, needing to expend the pent up pain and unable to unleash it on his precious shop.

It wasn't enough. The buzzing was digging into his ears, the traffic too loud even now. There was a faint pop from somewhere in the room with his fists hit his temples.

Something slid between Aziraphale and his silent panic, something soft but boney placing themselves between fist and skull. Somewhere, the gramophone started playing.

Schubert. /Die Forelle./ Rhythmic and simple.

The cold was slipped back onto his face once the hands were sure that Aziraphale's hands had gone back to their panicked flutters. The weighted blanket that smelled as much like Crowley as the shop was draped across his shoulders.

"Y'alright now, angel?" It took a beat or two for the hushed words to sink in.

He wasn't. The frustration was draining out, but leaving behind a numbed exhaustion that left him swaying where he stood, the blanket threatening to drag him to the floor. The thought of even opening his mouth, much less finding the right words, was too much, so a faint movement of the head had to do.

"'Tickety-boo', huh?" Crowley's careful banter came out in a breath. A blessing his love couldn't have known he was giving. Crowley wasn't angry with him if he were teasing like that.

Aziraphale's head slumped against Crowley's chest, hiding in his scent and cool, soft shirt.

"Tight or soft?"

The angel gripped Crowley's shirt tightly in answer, and the demon obediently squeezed his angel close like the serpent he was, one hand on the back of the head, the other between the shoulder blades, right where wings should be.

Aziraphale finally let out a shaky breath he hadn't realised he had been holding as black feathers blotted out the rest of the world, wrapping snugly around his tired form.


End file.
